Dangerous Disconnect
by Countryole
Summary: It’s the moment of definition in which the line between two lives blurs and she is left teetering on the edge to plunge to either side. All she needs is someone to push her in the right direction. Post episode tag to Child's Play.


_Dangerous Disconnect_

Wielding a weapon is one of Ziva's specialties. As a member of Kidon perfection of any and every tool at one's disposal had been a necessity in order to achieve success. She was a bayonet, each edge of the spear sharpened for victory and nothing less. That was another time though, another life. Throwing knives no longer defines if she lives or dies and her impressive aim rarely shows itself outside the shooting range, but she does not mind. The change in scenery from Mossad assassin to NCIS agent has made proficiency a convenience versus a requisite.

Once she would have interrogated a prisoner and pressed the quick-silver flat of a blade to their necks if they chose to remain silent. Now she threatens her coworker in the desk across from her with death by stapler and letter opener for stealing her lunch. Normality seems strange in retrospect, but she likes the way it feels to have intimidation as a friend and the way it looks to wear invincibility as a mask.

However, despite living in a different world that does not require you to carry some form of defense to the door every time someone knocks, Ziva remains a finely tuned product of her training. Her hands can cradle a gun with uncanny expertise and her fingers can slide with familiar ease around the trigger, falling into an effortless routine. That skill alone makes her good at what she does. It is an ability to separate the blacks and whites of orders and emotions, allowing logical self preservation of the mind to rule the heart.

She forgets how easy it is to lose one's self in the moment, to detach completely, to rely on nothing but instinct and the ever potent will to survive. There is the task at hand and you are the means to finish it.

It is a dangerous disconnect.

This is why Ziva is at the shooting range now, letting clip after clip of her 9 millimeter sig empty into the flimsy sheets of target paper posted at a hundred yards. The intensity with which she is poised – her feet spread for a wide base of support, her barrel tilted at a slight downward angle to account for kick back – is a testament to her determination. Her dark hair is a mess as she pulls it into a haphazard ponytail, out of the way of her eyes and the safety glasses that protect them. The metallic scent of gunpowder creates an aroma that accompanies the rhythmic sound of colliding bullets that manages to slip past her ear muffs.

Pull, release, and reload. Then she starts again, another perfect four rounds to the upper chest.

Between clips she pauses and when she dares to stop long enough for a drink of water her mind drifts. The soothing coolness of the liquid quenches the dry ache of thirst in her throat, but it does little to appease her insatiable thoughts. The case involving the government think tank has just been closed, the murderer dead with a bullet to the head by her own hand. She is lingering on the details longer than she should but something always brings her back. Her memories try to haunt her with the fierce glint of the gun in the moonlight or the way the man's body shuddered upon impact and fell lifeless to the ground.

Ziva automatically reloads the pistol with a fresh clip and prepares to fire another round of bullets into the already shredded target when a shadow falls across her. She half turns her head with surprise and glances over her shoulder to find her lunch-stealing coworker staring back at her with a curious set of bright green eyes.

The disconnect falters for a moment before she can recompose.

"What did he do to deserve all that?"

Tony provides a sweeping gesture toward the bullet battered target along with a crooked grin that makes her stomach flutter. All she does is shrug and bite her lower lip indecisively before turning her focus back to her weapon. Neither one of them misses awkward shift into silence. He stands with his hands shoved in his pockets watching her and waiting with the expectancy of a puppy, a very annoying puppy, because he refuses to speak again until she's given him a proper answer.

Sometimes she thinks his resilience is one of his more endearing qualities, but his eyes are burning holes into her back and endearment is fast becoming a nuisance. He's got her cornered with no where to run.

"It is practice," she speaks with emphasis after a particularly long bout of hesitation, forcing unimportance into her words, "It settles my mind so I don't have to think."

Tony seems unconvinced with this answer, but he says nothing to dispute her. Routine dissolves into nervous habit as Ziva double checks the gun's safety and avoids his stare. She doesn't shoot with him watching because his eyes make her movements feel heavy and uncoordinated. She refuses to showcase sloppy marksmanship in front of him, the thought alone making her feel all the more exposed. There is something to be said about the intimacy between a woman and her firearm that borders on being ritualistic and his unexpected arrival has become a successful interruption.

Though she's hardly content to stand there with her back turned to him, she resigns herself to the fact that it's the only thing left to do that could possibly make the situation any less uncomfortable.

So – being resigned and all - it surprises Ziva when he appears right behind her.

She's trying to comprehend what's happening while Tony encircles her slight frame in a tentative embrace, his hands joining her own around the gun. His breath is warm and it tickles her ear, but she cannot bring herself to move. He places his feet in accordance to hers, squaring their hips and letting her shoulders lean into his chest while his knees brush the back of her thighs. The previous gunpowder concocted aroma now mingles with the scent of his cologne and makes her dizzy with disbelief while everywhere she can feel his touch burning with an uncanny familiarity.

Comprehension be damned, he's _entirely_ too close.

She watches stunned as he lifts their hands in unison to aim at the target and it's a wonder her synapses are firing at all after the initial sensory overload.

"You have to think," the murmur is soft and near inaudible, but the conviction behind the words is clear enough to garner her attention.

"It's easy to forget who you are – to pull the trigger and feel the disconnect – but the moment you stop caring about the consequences means you stop caring about what matters."

It's the moment of definition in which the line between two lives blurs and she is left teetering on the edge to plunge to either side. All she needs is someone to push her in the right direction.

Tony's words resonate in her mind and Ziva can picture herself on this ledge, balanced between two opposing forces, two sets of hands that serve to steady her or unsettle her depending on the circumstance. One set of hands belongs to the dominion of her father. The other set of hands belongs to alliances wrought in sweat and blood. Both of them are waiting for her to fall.

Only one question remains. Which way will she fall first?

She can't help but notice that she likes the way the latter set of hands look wrapped around hers.

* * *

_**A/N:** Just a little filler that's set after the season 7 episode Child's Play. Ziva and Tony have a moment, though I have to say this is pretty much Ziva-centric as far as line of thought goes. Thanks again to Zaedah for being an awesome beta! As always reviews are welcome, good or bad, and thank you for your interest. :]_


End file.
